MY ONE ADVENTURE AS A BRIGAND.
I was standing in a hostelry, at Geneva, making a
bargain with an Italian for a place in a return carriage
to Florence, when an Englishman, who had been in
the same steamer with me on Lake Leman, the day
before, came in and stood listening to the conversation.
We had been the only two passengers on board,
but had passed six hours in each other's company
without speaking. The road to an Englishman's
friendship is to have shown yourself perfectly indifferent
to his acquaintance, and, as I liked him from the
first, we were now ready to be conscious of each other's
existence.
“I beg pardon,” said he, advancing in a pause of
the vetturino's oration, “will you allow me to engage
a place with you? I am going to Florence, and, if
agreeable to you, we will take the carriage to ourselves.”
I agreed very willingly, and in two hours we were
free of the gates of Geneva, and keeping along the
edge of the lake in the cool twilight of one of the loveliest
of heaven's summer evenings. The carriage was
spaciously contrived for four; and, with the curtains
up all around, our feet on the forward seat, my companion
smoking, and conversation bubbling up to
please itself, we rolled over the smooth road, gliding
into the first chapter of our acquaintance as tranquilly
as Geoffrey Crayon and his reader into the first chapter
of anything he has written.
My companion (Mr. St. John Elmslie, as put down
in his passport) seemed to have something to think of
beside propitiating my good will, but he was considerate
and winning, from evident high breeding, and
quite open, himself, to my most scrutinizing study.
He was about thirty, and, without any definite beauty,
was a fine specimen of a man. Probably most persons
would have called him handsome. I liked him
better, probably, from the subdued melancholy with
which he brooded on his secret thought, whatever it
might be—sad men, in this world of boisterous gayety
or selfish ill-humor, interesting me always.
From that something, on which his memory fed in
quiet but constant revery, nothing aroused my companion
except the passing of a travelling carriage, going
in the other direction, on our own arrival at an inn.
I began to suspect, indeed, after a little while, that
Elmslie had some understanding with our vetturino,
for, on the approach of any vehicle of pleasure, our
horses became restiff, and, with a sudden pull-up,
stood directly across the way. Out jumped my friend
to assist in controlling the restiff animals, and, in the
five minutes during which the strangers were obliged
to wait, we generally saw their heads once or twice
thrust inquiringly from the carriage window. This
done, our own vehicle was again wheeled about, and
the travellers allowed to proceed.
We had arrived at Bologna with but one interruption
to the quiet friendliness of our intercourse. Apropos
of some vein of speculation, I had asked my companion
if he were married. He was silent for a moment, and
then, in a jocose tone of voice, which was new to me,
replied, “I believe I have a wife—somewhere in Scotland.”
But though Elmslie had determined to show
me that he was neither annoyed nor offended at my
inquisitiveness, his manner changed. He grew ceremonious.
For the remainder of that day, I felt uncomfortable,
I scarce knew why; and I silently determined
that if my friend continued so exceedingly well-bred
in his manner for another day, I should find an
excuse for leaving him at Bologna.
But we had left Bologna, and, at sunset of a warm
day, were slowly toiling up the Apennines. The inn to
which we were bound was in sight, a mile or two above
us, and, as the vetturino stopped to breathe his horses,
Elmslie jumped from the carriage and started to walk
on. I took advantage of his absence to stretch myself
over the vacated cushions, and, on our arrival at the
inn, was soundly asleep.
My friend's voice, in an unusual tone, awoke me,
and, by his face, as he looked in at the carriage window,
I saw that he was under some extraordinary excitement.
This I observed by the light of the stable-lantern—for
the hostelry, Italian fashion, occupied
the lower story of the inn, and our carriage was driven
under the archway, where the faint light from without
made but little impression on the darkness. I followed
Elmslie's beckoning finger, and climbing after him up
the stairway of stone, stood in a large refectory occupying
the whole of the second story of the building.
At the first glance I saw that there was an English
party in the house. An Italian inn of the lower order
has no provision for private parties, and few, except
English travellers, object to joining the common evening
meal. The hall was dark with the twilight, but a
large curtain was suspended across the farther extremity,
and, by the glimmer of lights, and an occasional
sound of a knife, a party was within supping in
silence.
“If you speak, speak in Italian,” whispered Elmslie,
taking me by the arm, and leading me on tiptoe to
one of the corners of the curtain.
I looked in and saw two persons seated at a table—
a bold and soldierly-looking man of fifty, and a young
lady, evidently his daughter. The beauty of the last-mentioned
person was so extraordinary that I nearly
committed the indiscretion of an exclamation in English.
She was slight, but of full and well-rounded
proportions, and she sat and moved with an eminent
grace and ladylikeness altogether captivating.
Though her face expressed a settled sadness, it was
of unworn and faultless youth and loveliness, and
while her heavily-fringed eyes would have done, in
their expression, for a Niobe, Hebe's lips were not
more ripe, nor Juno's arched more proudly. She was
a blonde, with eyes and eyelashes darker than her
hair—a kind of beauty almost peculiar to England.
The passing in of a tall footman, in a plain livery of
gray, interrupted my gaze, and Elmslie drew me away
by the arm, and led me into the road in front of the
locanda. The night had now fallen, and we strolled
up and down in the glimmer of the starlight. My
companion was evidently much disturbed, and we
made several turns after I had seen very plainly that
he was making up his mind to communicate to me the
secret.
“I have a request to make of you,” he said, at last;
“a service to exact, rather, to which there were no
hope that you would listen for a moment if I did not
first tell you a very singular story. Have a little patience
with me, and I will make it as brief as I can—
the briefer, that I have no little pain in recalling it with
the distinctness of description.”
I expressed my interest in all that concerned my
new friend, and begged him to go on.
“Hardly six years ago,” said Elmslie, pressing my
arm gently in acknowledgment of my sympathy, “I
left college and joined my regiment, for the first time,
in Scotland. By the way, I should re-introduce myself
to you as Viscount S—, of the title of which,
then, I was in prospect. My story hinges somewhat
upon the fact that, as an honorable captain, a nobleman
in expectancy, I was an object of some extraneous
interest to the ladies who did the flirting for the
garrison. God forgive me for speaking lightly on the
subject!
“A few evenings after my arrival, we had been dining
rather freely at mess, and the major announced to us
that we were invited to take tea with a linen-draper,
whose house was a popular resort of the officers of
the regiment. The man had three or four daughters,
who, as the phrase goes, `gave you a great deal for
your money,' and, for romping and frolicking, they
had good looks and spirit enough. The youngest was
really very pretty, but the eldest, to whom I was exclusively
presented by the major, as a sort of quiz on
a new-comer, was a sharp and sneering old maid, red-headed,
freckled, and somewhat lame. Not to be outdone
in frolic by my persecutor, I commenced making
love to Miss Jacky in mock heroics, and we were soon
marching up and down the room, to the infinite entertainment
of my brother officers, lavishing on each other
every possible term of endearment.
“In the midst of this, the major came up to me with
rather a serious face.
“`Whatever you do,' said he, `for God's sake don't
call the old girl your wife. The joke might be serious.'
“It was quite enough that I was desired not to do
anything in the reign of misrule then prevailing. I
immediately assumed a connubial air, to the best of
my dramatic ability, begged Miss Jacky to join me in
the frolic, and made the rounds of the room, introducing
the old girl as Mrs. Elmslie, and receiving from
her quite as many tendernesses as were bearable by
myself or the company present. I observed that the
lynx-eyed linen-draper watched this piece of fun very
closely, and my friend, the major, seemed distressed
and grave about it. But we carried it out till the
party broke up, and the next day the regiment was
ordered over to Ireland, and I thought no more, for
awhile, either of Miss Jacky or my own absurdity.
“Two years afterward, I was, at a drawing-room at
St. James's, presented, for the first time, by the name
which I bear. It was not a very agreeable event to me,
as our family fortunes were inadequate to the proper
support of the title, and on the generosity of a maternal
uncle, who had been at mortal variance with my father,
depended our hopes of restoration to prosperity. From
the mood of bitter melancholy in which I had gone
through the ceremony of an introduction, I was aroused
by the murmur in the crowd at the approach of a young
girl just presented to the king. She was following a
lady whom I slightly knew, and had evidently been
presented by her; and, before I had begun to recover
from my astonishment at her beauty, I was requested
by this lady to give her protegé an arm and follow to a
less crowded apartment of the palace.
“Ah, my friend! the exquisite beauty of Lady
Melicent—but you have seen her. She is here, and
I must fold her in my arms to-night, or perish in the
attempt.
“Pardon me!” he added, as I was about to interrupt
him with an explanation. “She has been—she
is—my wife! She loved me and married me, making
life a heaven of constant ecstacy—for I worshipped
her with every fibre of my existence.”
He paused and gave me his story brokenly, and I
waited for him to go on without questioning.
“We had lived together in absolute and unclouded
happiness for eight months, in lover-like seclusion at
her father's house, and I was looking forward to the
birth of my child with anxiety and transport, when the
death of my uncle left me heir to his immense fortune,
and I parted from my greater treasure to go and pay
the fitting respect at his burial.
“I returned, after a week's absence, with an impatience
and ardor almost intolerable, and found the door
closed against me.
“There were two letters for me at the porter's lodge
—one from Lord A—, my wife's father, informing
me that the Lady Melicent had miscarried and was
dangerously ill, and enjoining upon me as a man of
honor and delicacy, never to attempt to see her again;
and another from Scotland, claiming a fitting support
for my lawful wife, the daughter of the linen-draper.
The proofs of the marriage, duly sworn to and certified
by the witnesses of my fatal frolic, were enclosed,
and on my recovery, six weeks after, from the delirium
into which these multiplied horrors precipitated me, I
found that, by the Scotch law, the first marriage was
valid, and my ruin was irrevocable.”
“And how long since was this?” I inquired, breaking
in upon his narration for the first time.
“A year and a month—and till to-night I have not
seen her. But I must break through this dreadful
separation now—and I must speak to her, and press
her to my breast—and you will aid me?”
“To the last drop of my blood, assuredly. But
how?”
“Come to the inn! You have not supped, and we
will devise as you eat. And you must lend me your
invention, for my heart and brain seem to me going
wild.”
Two hours after, with a pair of loaded pistols in my
breast, we went to the chamber of the host, and bound
him and his wife to the posts of their beds. There
was but one man about the house, the hostler, and we
had made him intoxicated with our travelling flask of
brandy. Lord A— and his daughter were still sitting
up, and she, at her chamber window, was watching
the just risen moon, over which the clouds were
drifting very rapidly. Our business was, now, only
with them, as, in their footman, my companion had
found an attached creature, who remembered him, and
willingly agreed to offer no interruption.
After taking a pull at the brandy-flask myself (for,
in spite of my blackened face and the slouched hat of
the hostler, I required some fortification of the muscles
of my face before doing violence to an English
nobleman), I opened the door of the chamber which
must be passed to gain access to that of Lady Melicent.
It was Lord A—'s sleeping-room, and, though
the light was extinguished, I could see that he was
still up, and sitting at the window. Turning my lantern
inward, I entered the room and set it down, and,
to my relief, Lord A— soliloquized in English, that
it was the host with a hint that it was time to go to
bed. My friend was at the door, according to my arrangement,
ready to assist me should I find any difficulty;
but, from the dread of premature discovery of
the person, he was to let me manage it alone if possible.
Lord A— sat unsuspectingly in his chair, with
his head turned half way over his shoulders to see why
the officious host did not depart. I sprung suddenly
upon him, drew him backward and threw him on his
face, and, with my hand over his mouth, threatened
him with death, in my choicest Italian, if he did not
remain passive till his portmanteau had been looked
into. I thought he might submit, with the idea that
it was only a robbery, and so it proved. He allowed
me, after a short struggle, to tie his hands behind him,
and march him down to his carriage, before the muzzle
of my pistol. The hostelry was still as death, and,
shutting his carriage door upon his lordship, I mounted
guard.
The night seemed to me very long, but morning
dawned, and, with the earliest gray, the postillions
came knocking at the outer door of the locanda. My
friend went out to them, while I marched back Lord
A— to his chamber, and, by immense bribing, the
horses were all put to our carriage a half hour after,
and the outraged nobleman was left without the means
of pursuit till their return. We reached Florence in
safety, and pushed on immediately to Leghorn, where
we took the steamer for Marseilles and eluded arrest,
very much to my most agreeable surprise.
By a Providence that does not always indulge mortals
with removing those they wish in another world,
Lord S— has lately been freed from his harrowing
chain by the death of his so-called lady: and, having
re-married Lady Melicent, their happiness is renewed
and perfect. In his letter to me, announcing it, he
gives me liberty to tell the story, as the secret was divulged
to Lord A— on the day of his second nuptials.
He said nothing, however, of his lordship's
forgiveness for my rude handling of his person, and,
in ceasing to be considered a brigand, possibly I am
responsible as a gentleman.
